


The Fainting Room

by aban_asaara



Series: Month of Fanfiction 2017 [10]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age II - Mark of the Assassin DLC, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hawke gets to wear the ridiculous Orlesian gown she deserved, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: Fenris and Hawke put the search for the Heart of the Many on hold to steal into Chateau Haine’s fainting room.





	The Fainting Room

**Author's Note:**

> Month of Fanfiction - Day 11 - Smut. Some ridiculous PWP set during Mark of the Assassin.

Maker damn it, those Orlesians were _not_ kidding.  


Duke Prosper had poured her two fingers of some peach liqueur—“said to enhance sensation,” he said as his gaze slithered up her décolletage like a slug—and the tiny little sips her corset allowed had seared their way down her constricted waist to pool between her legs, heating her up to the very core.

“You’re distracted, Champion,” giggled Sister Nightingale. “Something on your mind? Or should I say … someone?”

Her eyes glittered, and heat crept up Hawke’s face as she had the distinct impression that the redhead knew exactly what manner of drink swished in her tulip-shaped, short-stemmed glass.

Someone was on her mind alright. In fact, she blamed him as much as she did the blush-coloured liquid in her hand: they’d been at it like nugs since he’d returned to her, and the couple of days it had taken them to travel to the Vimmark Mountains had felt like another three years altogether.

_Romantic getaway, my arse_ , she thought. So far it had been more of an exercise in self-denial and discipline. Now instead of looking for a way inside the castle, she found herself stealing glances around the garden in hopes of catching a shock of silver hair.

Likely playing cards with Varric somewhere, the truant, while the silk of her stockings was sizzling off her legs from the heat underneath her skirts—

“Hawke,” the clipped hawthorn hedge whispered next to her, and she caught between the leaves a glower that seemed to have stolen the green out of them. Sister Nightingale bid her farewell with a knowing smile as Hawke slunk out of sight behind the hedge.

Fenris’s eyes managed _not_ to trip over the towering heights of her corseted breasts, and she loved him even more for it, even as she hungered for the palpable weight of his gaze on her, and his hands, and his lips and all the rest of him. “Varric is off looking for another—” he started before she cut him off with a kiss, “—way—” and another, “—in—” and _another_ , and— “ _Hawke_.” He closed his hands around her shoulders to hold her back, then blinked and licked his lips. “Peaches?”

“Peach liqueur,” she replied, raising the crystal glass, “and a potent aphrodisiac, as I’ve found out. Care for a sip?”

His eyes went from the glass and back to her, his mouth curving into a smirk that sent a flood of warmth through her belly. “I rather like the way it tastes on you,” he replied, then pulled her to himself to bring her mouth against his. Hawke curled one hand around his jaw and kissed him back, uncaring of the lace of her sleeve snagging on his armour and the liqueur sloshing over the brim of her glass to drip down her fingers.

“Where’s Tallis?” Fenris asked against her lips.

“Off charming the keys off the Duke’s son. We have some time.”

“Good,” he said, pulling the glass out of her grasp and setting it down between the front paws of a bronze lion. Then he brought her hand to his mouth, and slowly licked the liqueur off her fingers.

Her thighs parted at that, and it was all Hawke could do to keep her knees from giving out under her. She hobbled after him as he led her further away from the garden, her heart thundering so wildly that she feared her tits would bounce right out of her dress.

Fenris vanished behind a large oaken door in a flash of light, the Veil fluttering behind him to tickle her magic awake. Then the latch clicked, and the door opened onto his self-satisfied smile.

“How did we not think of this in the first place?” she laughed, then kissed the self-reproach off his face.

“The Heart of the Many was apparently insufficient as far as incentives go,” he replied with a shrug, closing the door behind them.

The _parloir_ (or was it a _salon_?) would have put to shame even the de Launcet manor: a sumptuous chandelier hung from the high ceiling, light trickling down strings upon strings of crystal; and animal skins the likes of which she’d never seen layered the rosewood floor under a tufted fainting couch of burgundy velvet. Next to it stood a mirror twice as tall as she, framed by swirls and wreaths carved out of gold. The sheer prodigality of it all was enough to make her head spin.

Splaying one hand over the door latch, Hawke called forth a thick layer of ice that cracked and popped as it seeped into the keyhole and curled around the knob. Then Fenris’s arms closed around her and she fell against him in a collision of mouths and hands, her breasts heaving against the metal of his chestpiece while gooseflesh followed the trail of his gauntlets on the nape of her neck and her shoulders. His breath was hot on the crook of her jaw as he tilted her head back to kiss her, moving down her throat to the swell of her cleavage. He could feel her pulse under his mouth, she was certain of it.

She teetered along as he half-led, half-carried her towards the fainting couch. For an instant she considered letting herself fall back on it, one hand pressed against her forehead, just for the laugh it would rouse out of him, but the thought soughed away when she glimpsed their reflection in the mirror.

Maker, but she looked good on him. Her gossamer silks, stitched with gold, gleamed in his embrace of steel plate and boiled leather; the black hair she inherited from her father was stark against the silver of his own, her complexion winter pale against dark olive that spoke of northern climes and endless summers.

Their eyes met in the mirror as Fenris wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You look beautiful in that dress,” he whispered into her ear with the barest brush of his lips on her temple.

“To think that I could look this darling every day,” she replied, slipping into the flowery lilt of an Orlesian accent, “had my mother not broken off her betrothal to the Comte de Launcet.”

He chuckled between two kisses dropped on the curve of her neck. “The Maker hasn’t abandoned us, after all.” He ran the sharp ends of his gauntlets down her throat, just shy of grazing the skin, and down the front of her bodice. Then he gave it a tug, and the rosy points of her breasts popped to freedom, startling a gasp out of her. He smirked against her skin. “Here. Even better.”

His gauntlets clattered to the floor when he discarded them to caress her breasts, teasing her nipples into hard nubs. Lips parted, Hawke twisted her neck, and he leaned to meet her mouth. Even through his trousers and the layers of her skirts she could feel him stiffen against her tailbone. She sighed into the kiss, burning to feel his touch on her— _inside_ her—and he responded with a slow grind of his hips.

Surprise flashed across his face in the mirror when she bent forward, propping herself on the couch with one hand and fumbling to gather her skirts with the other. The silk of her dress and undergown heaped around her waist as Fenris flung them over her rump, framing her face in the mirror like fluffed-up bird tail feathers. Hawke broke into laughter despite herself. “Ah, the look that’s been all the rage in Val-Royeaux: turkey about to get stuffed for Satinalia.”

Fenris laughed under his breath, but desire darkened his gaze as it slid down her exposed buttocks and legs. “You taste better,” he said, his fingers moving up the inside of her thigh and up the sopping fabric of her smallclothes. “Nowhere near as dry.”

Then he dropped to his knees behind her, disappearing out of sight.

Maker, _help her_.

It was his hair she felt on her thigh first, soft as a sigh, then the heat of his breath through her stocking just before he pressed his mouth to the back of her knee. His hands slid up her arse to find the waistband of her smalls. Slowly, he pulled them down the curve of her buttocks as he kissed his way up her leg. Hawke bit her lip, but couldn’t help the whine that escaped her mouth when his lips crossed the threshold of her garter to reach her bare skin. Already she was pulsing with want, the mere feeling of being exposed to the cool air of the room enough to tear a small whine out of her.

Her smalls fell to hang about her calves. Then Fenris’s tongue glided up the inside of her thigh, wet and warm. Digging her nails into the velvet, Hawke arced her back in anticipation when she felt his breath against her sex, followed by the first brush of his tongue—barely more than the caress of a warm summer breeze, gone like the rustle of leaves. Another came after it, just as soft, and another, rippling through her to send a flush of warmth to her face. Then he slanted his mouth against her, drew the flat of his tongue across her entrance and curled the tip inside her, the hum that rose out of his throat rumbling to her very core.

Hawke cried out, tearing the quiet of the room like fabric. Fenris stopped at that, and they both listened for voices or footfalls, but they heard nothing but the rasp of her breathing, the muffled bellows of Leopold somewhere in the garden, the twinkle of the crystal chandelier overhead.

“Quiet,” Fenris said, chuckling against her, so Hawke fisted one hand and bit the knuckles. His hands wrapped around her waist, tangling themselves up in her skirts to pull her against him. She felt his lips close around her clitoris, and she whimpered into her hand at the gentle pressure of his touch. Then he started making love to her with his mouth, his tongue light and quick and _maddening_. Each dart of its tip, each flick sent a spark of heat to stoke the fire building up inside her, until white-blazing flames ran inside her veins rather than blood.

“ _Wait_ ,” she gasped at last, and Fenris stopped just in time. For a moment she teetered at the edge of her peak; she panted, breasts quivering, insides clenching, but at last the coil of pleasure inside her belly loosened and she was able to breathe again.

Her eyelids fluttered open. In the mirror she saw herself flushed all the way down to her nipples, the blue of her eyes brighter than she’d ever seen it. Behind her, Fenris had risen to his feet and now watched her reflection, something burning at the bottom of his eyes, and she felt a new pang of desire when he licked the sheen of her arousal off his lips.

Her arms almost gave way under her. “I want you,” she moaned in a voice that wasn’t quite her own.

First went his belt, slumping to the floor next to the gauntlets. Then he unlaced his trousers as Hawke kicked her smalls off. She had the foresight to pull herself up on all fours on the couch before the hot, hard length of him ran up her thigh to brush the entrance of her sex, nearly turning her bones to jelly with a fresh pulse of pleasure. Fenris caught her gaze in the mirror, a question hanging unspoken in the space between his lips.

“ _Please_ ,” she breathed.

With a groan, Fenris eased the head of his cock inside her. Hawke pursed her lips to keep down the moans that threatened to pour out of her throat as he slid inside her slowly, stretching her open. Then they stayed like this for a moment, the wet heat of her gloving his cock as they breathed to the same rhythm, eyes locked together in the mirror. He ran one finger down the nape of her neck and between her shoulder blades, and followed the hourglass line of her corset to grip her hips, fingers digging into her skin.

Then he pulled out, slowly, before ramming into her again.

Her mouth fell open to let a gulp of air roll in, but it caught in her throat, hindered by the corset. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths instead while his hips smacked against her rump, again and again. And still, it wasn’t nearly enough. She bucked up against him, wanting him as deep inside her as humanly (or was it elfly?) possible. Every time they’d made love since he’d returned to her, it had been like this: she _trusted_ him not to leave her again, but her senses always tumbled into a wild frenzy, some furious awareness that it _could_ be the last time, as if trying to commit every last whit of him to memory.

He moaned, a deep sound that rumbled up her spine to raise the hairs on her head. One of his hands slid around her thigh, two fingers stroking her while he thrusted into her in earnest. Her arms crumpled under her weight, and she opened her mouth to muffle her cries into the plush velvet.

“Hawke,” he said, her name no more than a rasp against his throat, “look at me.”

She forced her eyes open, and could have climaxed from the sight alone: the First Champion of Kirkwall, her elaborate coiffure threatening to topple down while her teats hung out of her corset, her mouth loose in pleasure while she was getting fucked mabari style in the Duke’s _parloir_.

_Quel scandale_. She clenched around him at the thought.

She found Fenris’s gaze in the mirror, a green gleam blazing between strands of silver. His breaths came in quick, sharp bursts, a flush pinkening his complexion. He put one foot on the edge of the couch to angle himself even deeper inside her, pounding into her hard and fast as she lay there with her arse in the air, and she caught the moment he came undone: his eyes clenched closed, his mouth drooped with a low groan of pleasure, and he throbbed deep inside her as for one split second, he lost the control and focus that otherwise ruled his every action.

The sight unfurled a flood of warmth that crested into the height of her pleasure, sweeping her heavenward to dim all else. Then she crashed back into herself after one unending moment, and realised she’d been holding her breath when she found herself gasping for air. Heat flashed to her face; dots swirled at the edge of her vision. She looked down to see ice spidering out of her fingers, crackling along the velvet to settle around the buttons of the tufted upholstery.

“Oops,” she mouthed, and the room spun just as darkness swooped down upon her like a curtain.

Two Fenrises were bent over her when Hawke opened her eyes again, tugging the lacing of her corset loose. He’d lain her against the arched backrest of the fainting couch—or so she surmised, at least. Relief swept the furrow off his brow when he saw her looking back at him, her double vision coalescing again into one image. “Are you alright? You— _fainted_.”

Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, though he had the decency not to laugh. “At least I picked just the spot for that,” she mumbled in answer, smiling up at him. The corset hung awkwardly around her now, but at least she could breathe.

He laughed under his breath as he sat on his heels by the couch, his eyes at an height with hers. Then he plucked a frond of frost off the armrest to press it to her neck, drawing a sharp exhale out of her. “So … that good, huh?” he said, breaking into a grin.

The ice cleared the last few whorls of haze out of her head. “I suppose we _could_ take a bottle or two of that liqueur along with the gem at this point,” she quipped, smiling against his lips as he leaned in to kiss her.

Fenris smirked. “ _If_ you promise to wear the corset again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com/)!


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